GW Lightning Arc 3 Tempest
by LoveyouHateyou
Summary: Treize's grand plans are ripening, and Zechs fails to understand... disappointment, bitterness and feelings of betrayal wrack the Lightning Count, while the General is trying to put off facing his nightmares for just a little longer...


**Lightning Arc 3 – Tempest**

Fandom: Gundam Wing  
Rating: M for references to an intimate Zechs/Treize relationship.  
Pairing: Zechs and Treize  
Warnings: m/m love and some references to m/m sex, some swearing - if you are hoping for explicit scenes though, you are likely to be disappointed.  
Spoilers: everywhere, in all my stories

Summary: Treize's grand plans are ripening, and Zechs fails to understand... disappointment, bitterness and feelings of betrayal wrack the Lightning Count, and the General is trying to put off facing his nightmares for just a little longer...

xxx

Zechs could tell at a glance when Treize was in a temper. The meeting with Romefeller officials had been polite and icy; Treize had barely been able to contain himself while the whole thing was headed towards an all-out confrontation. They had gone as far as questioning his authority to lead the OZ units.

Zechs allowed a small smile to curl his lips. No one should have been stupid enough to scratch His Excellency like this. For the rest of the meeting, Treize had been coldly obliging, raising no more queries, in fact, putting no substance at all behind his fine words. A smoke screen, skilfully woven, slyly draped to shroud the hollow pleasantries he bestowed upon those men.

He was done with them.

They both knew what that meant, and Zechs did not envy him. While ensconced in the neverland of the old base, buried beneath the snow and ice of Antarctica, he had watched the meeting via a secure video link. Officially, he had gone missing in action. Treize held true to his unspoken promise – he had let Zechs go and take Heero Yuy's gundam along to secretly mend it. While Treize feigned ignorance, leading the investigators of the Foundation astray, Zechs had staged the destruction of a dummy, for the benefit of the Foundation inspector who had been hounding him. Lucy had done her share fighting off the dogs of war that kept snapping at his heels... and those of His Excellency.

Treize would not let go of a chance to improve Zero, for Zero meant power. And Zero obeyed him.

Bathed in the blue sheen of the video screen, Zechs had been wondering whether any of those men, who held so much power, noticed the subtle shift in Treize's demeanour. The slight pause that signalled the final rift, the one that would tear them apart. Treize had gone into the meeting with only two possible outcomes in his mind, carefully mapped, weighed and checked over many a time during those past months. All parameters considered, all permutations worked through with meticulous precision, resources in place, contingency plans too – he was not one to leave such matters to fortune. And at that moment, during this tiny silence, he made his decision. Razorsharp, with total clarity of mind, and utterly aware of the consequences. Subsequently, he had disengaged from battle... in order to regroup for the ultimate coup d'etat.

He had never been fond of wasting resources.

They had either been too blind to see him strain away from their strategy, or too conceited to watch him do it whilst they believed they could control the situation. Zechs smiled a little. Blindness or stupidity, both were fatal when dealing with someone as formidable as His Excellency. Unforgiveable, really, and a tad disappointing that those intelligent, shrewd men had slipped up so badly, but then, Treize was miles ahead of them in this game. He had outwitted, outsmarted, outranked them. Stealthily seized control over resources and amassed authority he should not have been given, had they been brighter.

If they had valued him as he deserved. If they had just listened. Never allowed him to rise to the first in command of their elite forces, but kept him under the rein of some non-descript, non-charismatic nobody. Never allowed him – one man, with a heart as grand as the Russian wilderness, with dreams beyond anyone's wildest imagination, and the courage of a thousand lions – to use them, the Foundation and its vast resources to further his own ends. One man who had taken on the world and was determined to rule the course of its events according to his designs. And if he was afraid, he had buried his fears under the act he was playing with panache, breathless with power and control.

Too late now to turn anything around, Zechs mused, it was too late for everything, the die was cast and they were all plummeting towards their ultimate destiny, irreversible, final, steered by a pair of fine hands and a mind nobody knew in its deepest secrets.

Lucky for everyone, Zechs thought bitterly, that Treize's sense of honour matched his capabilities for destruction...

Even though he had allowed Zechs' gundam to go down along with Yuy's machine. Zechs tried to swallow the resentment. Treize had always known... always spun his grand schemes all by himself... _trust no one whom you want to spare a burden..._ of course. Considerate and caring. Zechs rubbed his eyes that felt sore from too much screenwork. Why had Treize not told him? Why take down both of them when Zechs had cornered Yuy and moved in for the kill? One last blast, and one of the child soldiers would have been no more... even though there had been this dragging sensation in his chest, as though something tried to fight Zero... the system that had spread into his every nerve until he had become one with his machine. A machine with human instincts and the precision of a computer, unfeeling, uncaring, intent only on killing. The ideal soldier.

"I could not let this happen," Treize had merely said. "Can't you see, Miliusha?" Zechs snorted softly. No, he could not see why fulfilling what he had perceived as Treize's ultimate goal should have been foiled at the last moment, by Treize himself no less, even endangering his life. But should he have not gotten used by now to not receiving answers to his questions?

He drew a suppressed sigh. Now, Treize was here, at the old base, filling it with his presence like a wash of light would fill a dark space.

Because after the meeting, in a rare fit of reckless disregard of anything but his whims, Treize had boarded his private plane and flown to the only place where he longed to be then... Antarctica. Zechs. He knew that no one would dare to follow him – no one but him, or Zechs, or perhaps the child soldiers that flew those gundams, would fly into a snowstorm that made the end of the world appear like a walk in the park...

Zechs had received him shocked yet unsurprised, angry at what he called idiocy, and incredibly happy.

They had eaten dinner in the abandoned officers' mess, too large for the pair of them, the clicking of silver on china echoing through the room designed to hold around fifty people. Two of the junior mechanics had eagerly taken on the duty of setting out the long table with white linen, porcelain dishes, polished silver cutlery, and a couple of white candles in silver holders. All for the chance to steal a glimpse and perhaps exchange a few words with His Excellency, and Treize had received their starry-eyed admiration with down-to-earth kindness.

The cadets served the dishes to Treize first who sat at the head-end of the table, then to Zechs, to his right. Zechs, falling into role easily at this oddly formal meal, laid on food and drink for Treize before eating his own. Treize sat back and let him, watching the younger man with a carefully neutral expression, anything else concealed under this cool, composed mask. Zechs could feel his gaze like a burning caress, bathing him in heat and wanting and waves of delicious agony. He enjoyed having Treize here, in the highly ritualised setting so familiar to him, living for a while in the shadow of an illusion... of being back home, at the estate. In the stillness of the wintry drawing room where even a light breakfast was an affair of silver, crystal, and white linen, and where a ripe apple and a slice of rich spicy rye bread would be eaten with knife and fork.

He determinedly ignored the thought of Treize having to leave again.

They had caviar and sparkling wine to start with, followed by borshtsh **1** and black, heavy rye bread, steamed sturgeon, crusty white bread as fluffy as summer clouds, spread with golden-salty butter; dishes of pickled gherkins and salted mushrooms, pirogges **2** filled with cabbage and potatoes, blini **3** with rose jam and soured cream, and to finish, strong black tea with brown sugar and cream. "A feast fit for a Tsar," Treize commented, as he leaned back in his chair and discreetly popped open the bottom button of his sharply tailored uniform jacket. His eyes holding a wistful smile as he reached for the bouquet of twenty four snow-white, faintly scented roses **4** in a crystal vase that stood between him and Zechs. "How did you manage to get these here?"

My secret, Zechs had told him – no reason to mention that he had risked life and limb on a detour to the Khushrenada estate, with the Foundation dogs so close he could almost feel them breathing down his back...

Roses, he knew, kept rather well when fridged. He also knew, against his hopes, Treize would turn up, sooner or later.

They had finished their meal with cheese and port, followed by a bottle of red wine, and later vodka. Lots of it. Interspersed by bites of more black bread, smoked eel, transparent slivers of smoked lard, sour pickled fish, smoked cured meats, sliced waferthin, and marinated mushrooms. **5** Zechs could not remember when they had sent the cadets off duty...

Yet neither food, nor alcohol had relaxed His Excellency. For when Zechs woke up, still fully dressed, in Treize's bed in the grey hours before the first bugle, Treize sat in front of his computer on the old base, eyes glitterig, posture stiff and coiled so tense it screamed for a vent. Something to blow up, or someone to blast to outer space, to cut and slash to pieces with snide remarks as sly and honed as the whisper of a dagger.

Or to be released by clever hands kneading hardened muscles, smooth out knots and pains and soothe whatever was bugging him. It really depended on the timing, like defusing a bomb – the fraction of a second on the wrong side, and whamm... or delve in, get it right, and drown in the sweet wash of exhilariating, adrenaline-high relief from extreme pressure. It was a gamble, sheer luck really.

Zechs lay still for a while, watching. Treize's sharp profile against the glimmer of the screen, his fingers tapping a fast, relentless rhythm onto the desk – something he only did when he believed himself unobserved – and he was still dressed... he would have spent the night in front of the computer, instead of going to bed and sleep.

Gambling where Treize was concerned was a challenge. And perhaps not all luck either, Zechs mused, after all, he had spent years observing, studying, stashing away snippets of knowledge. A bit like assembling a manual on how to safely handle some piece of complicated, dangerous, breathtakingly beautiful machinery whose intent and purpose was obscure. He had beome an engineer to make the secrets of mechanical things his own... a tool for Treize to use.

And he had never been one to turn down a challenge. He had discovered the one detail that made it possible to breach the icy fortress His Excellency built around himself, and somewhat steer the course of events: in his anger, Treize was predictable. Made himself predictable, with his usual discipline – his way of yielding control when he was losing it. Some warpedly logical way of avoiding collateral damage, Zechs thought; they had both become good at this.

Now, His Riled Up Excellency thrummed over the keyboard, every tap resounding with a violence that made Zechs wonder why the thing was not broken yet while he registered every twitch of Treize's clenched jaw and irritated blink of dark-coppery eyelashes. His hair was slightly less tidy than usual – three strands fell over his forehead instead of two, and he kept blowing them out of his face with annoying regularity. He had taken off his uniform jacket and placed it neatly over the back of his chair, and his cravat and the top button of his uniform shirt were undone. This was as much slack as he would cut himself, even now, when everything around him was becoming unstuck.

"What is it, Colonel?" he flung over his shoulder. Someone else might have sounded petulant, querulous, or resorted to shouting. Treize had the knack of chilling his tone to absolute zero. Trying to freeze everyone out, to allow for a tactical retreat, before the full wave of his wrath crashed home.

Zechs suppressed a bitter sigh. Sometimes, a controlled explosion was all he could trigger. He strode across the room and lay his hands on Treize's shoulders. "Nanny you," he said coolly, "what else?" He began to knead before Treize could snarl at him – a matter of tiny slivers of time: whoever was quicker would scoop the score for Treize considered it beneath his dignity to squabble.

Treize allowed the touch. Suffered it without relaxing at all; his muscles remained steel-hard beneath the determined, firm fingers that so blatantly attempted to make him feel good. He was seething, he WANTED to be angry, and right now he would resist anything that might pacify him. "I did not ask for company."

Most folk tried to avoid him when he was in this state, at least if they were smart enough to recognise the signs, Zechs thought with a frown somewhere between wry amusement and frustration. He did not need to see Treize's face to know that those vivid blue eyes were stormclouded and narrowed, a black scowl sat between tightly drawn red brows, and those fine, sensuous lips pressed together in a hard, bloodless line. Yes, Treize made himself easy to read when he got angry. He was all for playing things fair.

Well, mostly. "C'mon," Zechs said quietly, "unwind a bit. You're as rigid as a stick."

"I have to work."

It could have frozen a furnace. Zechs clamped his hands into hard muscle. "Yes. Of course." Memorising all those names that flickered past on the screen, reminding himself of his purpose, of his conscience and his bane.

Meticulously planning and ruthlessly executing the ultimate war to achieve absolute peace. The silence of arms, the kind that only comes with Death, it crossed Zechs' mind, and he felt no regret. Those who raise the sword... he smiled, a haughty, detached expression that lit his eyes with a cold fire. Those Alliance people, along with all those weaklings who let themselves be dominated, only got what they deserved, until the day they would understand. Though it might be too late by then.

Another few seconds of touching Treize, before irritation took over and a hard hand shot up to trap one of Zechs' wrists in a steely grip. "I told you you to leave."

"You said that you did not ask for company."

"A fine point to make, Colonel."

"You're not in uniform," Zechs pointed out rebelliously, "and not on duty. So don't pull rank on me now."

"I'll pull whatever I like on you, whenever I want to!"

"Go on then-"

Treize swung around on his chair to face his colonel and nailed him with a glare of solar heat and polar chill, and no matter that he was looking up at Zechs, the younger man felt small, compelled to kneel down to be able to meet those blazing, hard eyes almost level. "Milliardo," Treize said, his voice softer than velvet, belying the storm in his gaze, and Zechs winced as pain lanced through his chest.

"Don't call me that," he ground out harshly, but Treize merely cocked his head a little and still managed to look down at him even as he was tilting his chin up to glare at Zechs.

"Then let off now. Those names," he drew a swift breath and shook his head slightly, as if to shake off some heavy dream, "are more important that you and I. They hold the past from which we shall create the future."

"The future can wait a little," Zechs breathed, sliding his hands up Treize's legs.

xxx

Well, not many had the means Zechs could deploy to pacify and gentle His Annoyed Excellency. Letting himself get dragged up, slammed into the wall and growled at was one, shoving his hands down those damn tight pants was another. Taking the wind right out of Treize's sails, or better making it blow into a new and exciting direction: down south.

Not that Treize would emerge any more docile from their tussle, but satisfied at least, somewhat exhausted – spent would be the word, Zechs thought lazily as he lay by Treize's side – and definitely more peaceful. Well, as peaceful as His Excellency, General Khushrenada, a man who waged war against himself, could ever get. Treize lay on his back, one leg drawn up slightly, one arm angled over his face, and the younger man entertained himself by using his index finger to draw lazy circles on Treize's taut abdomen.

When Treize did not stir, Zechs rolled over and sprawled out, staring at the ceiling.

Treize breathed a long sigh. "Was it... did I bruise you?" he asked softly.

A small snort. "Battle marks, no more."

Treize reached across and laced his hand through long silver blond strands. Caressing slowly, langurously, as if to learn their texture anew. When the younger man did not move, Treize turned onto his side and splayed his hand on his friend's chest. "I can feel your heartbeat."

"No, you can't."

"Oh?"

"If there's no heart, how can you feel it?"

Treize propped himself up on one elbow, never breaking his caress. "Such bitterness... but I do not believe you, for I know you better than that, Miliusha."

Pale blue eyes turned on him, cold fire burning within. "You doubt me?"

"You would not be here if I did."

"And yet..."

Treize leaned over him, brilliant blue boring into ice blue, pale skin hot on amber. "And yet, we are at war... ay, Miliusha, if I could choose otherwise... but we can dream, can we not? We must hold on to our dreams, for they shall shape a new world."

"Grand words," Zechs murmured and tried to turn his head, but the caressing hand came up to gently, but firmly cup his chin and keep him still.

"Do you think me unworthy of them?"

The younger man opened his mouth to reply, but then just closed his eyes and laughed silently. The smile on Treize's face was not a happy one. "My life is not mine. You are not mine. I am living an opera, playing an act... not too badly, I should think, and perhaps with some style too."

"I am yours. Always was. Always will be."

"We must not lose ourselves."

"I want to. I want nothing more than... than..."

Another kiss, softly, to his lips. Followed by the feathery stroke of fingertips, tracing his mouth, and he opened to touch those warm, hard fingertips with his tongue. Taste Treize. "Do you remember?"

And he received the answer he always got: "Everything."

"Your first day at the Academy?"

"My first holiday."

Zechs gasped. "You looked... in that uniform – it WAS a size too tight, wasn't it?"

Treize just laughed.

"And you did it on purpose. Tease!" Zechs accused. "That evening you DID dance with me..."

"In the library when everyone else was in the ballroom. We could hear the music clearly enough, could we not? I meant to read those... ah, fairytales to you that you loved so much. You had been nagging me."

"I don't nag."

"Perhaps... begging would be more appropriate?"

"Gods, Treize, what did you expect? Me being oblivious to what was in your pants?"

"I... did try to be discreet."

"Like hell you did."

"You only saw because you were sizing me up. I believe it is called ogling, my dear friend."

"Perhaps. But what you did was not exactly what I'd call reading a book."

Treize pressed closer, and Zechs could feel the heat of the older man's body. "But it was wonderful, do you not agree? Would you have come to see me if I had told you?"

"Yes, and I would have come sooner." They shared a little smirk at the double entendre, before Zechs groaned softly and nuzzled his head into the crook of his companion's arm. "You got me hot and bothered. That damn dress unform really hides nothing."

"There are ways... as you know by now, but that evening..."

"You chose to shun those ways and did not wear anything underneath. Jesus, Treize, you weren't just breaking dress regulations." Pale eyes drifting shut, Zechs sucked his lower lip between his teeth and began to worry the soft flesh.

"I left the ballroom before anyone could accuse me of indecency. You let me stew."

"No, I could not disentangle me from some conversation..."

"It was my uncle offering you to proceed to the Academy."

"Yes, yes, I know." A hardly noticeable rocking of trim, hard hips against Treize's muscular body. "And then you refused to do anything with me."

"You," a discreet little cough, covering a laugh, and Zechs eyed him mistrustingly, at the same time glad and angry about the sparkle in those sharp blue eyes that always seemed to see right through him. "You were rather eager."

"You embarassed me. All that dirty talk made me come in my pants." Zechs tried to twist away, but Treize clamped one arm across his chest and pressed down firmly.

"I did not mean to... Miliusha moy, I would have loved to have you there and then. You were breathtaking, even in that stupid suit, and you were still too young."

"Not too young to enlist at the Academy. Not too young to... to make love to you. By law, not even too young to be sent to prison, or use a gun and drill to kill or be killed," came the retort with a fresh dose of bitterness. "You remember your first kill?"

Treize stilled. A long silence fell.

"Won't you tell me?" Zechs prodded, trying to move out of the embrace, only to be held in place.

"I thought you would have heard the story by now," Treize said quietly. "I became a true soldier when I was sixteen. In command of a detachment of graduates, several years my senior. Two of them were not happy with this situation." He paused, sliding his hand through long pale hair again. "It was strange. Not much time in a battle situation, simulated or not, and when we realised we were not in some simulated scenario, we were caught between two groups of colony rebels. I could not afford insubordination. A weakening of command... endangering the entire detachment. One was detained, the other one resisted, even threatened me." He drew a line along Zechs' broad shoulder, down his arm and up again. "So I shot him. It was not one of my prouder moments."

"That was the summer..."

"Before I came home for my first proper leave from the military," Treize completed the sentence.

"You shot to kill?"

Treize shifted, then released him and turned onto his back again, but his hand lingered in Zechs' hair. "An unfortunate impulse." Never to be repeated. Treize was all about control. "I could not allow the rest of the detachment to suffer the same fate. The incident was investigated-"

"By Une. You were cleared. It was your first kill."

A long pause, then, "Yes. He was very young."

"I saw the file."

Silence.

"I saw his picture."

Treize's hand in Zechs' hair stilled. "Yes. Blond hair, blue eyes. He reminded me of you. In more than his looks."

"How so?"

The silence that followed became thick and heavy. The first bugle sounded, hollow through the empty corridors of the abandoned base. The faint echo of doors being slammed and rushing feet wafted through the darkness.

Zechs sighed and turned to get up. As he sat on the edge of the bed, he could feel the mattress dip behind him – Treize getting up too – and then he was caught in a quick embrace.

"Do you take pleasure in making me hurt?" Treize's words were a sharp, hot whisper that made Zechs' hair stir and his skin burn, and before he could manage an answer, those hard, sure arms let go of him, almost pushing him away, and Treize slipped from the bed to get dressed.

xxx

Treize had been back at his computer before Zechs could offer him coffee or breakfast. His posture had been forbidding, the silence in which he shrouded himself dense and black. Zechs refrained from trying to talk him out of it this time. He went to the hangar instead, to work with his team of mechanics on the suits.

He saw and heard nothing of Treize during the long hours that followed, until another bugle sounded the end of the working day for the mechanics. Zechs stepped back and wiped his brow with the back of his arm, leaving a broad smudge of engine oil on his pale skin. He looked up at Tallgeese and smiled, then turned to the men behind him. All clad in black overalls, OZ issue for the specialist mechanics that worked on the suits, exhaustion and relief written clearly on their faces, along with a good measure of professional pride. They had been running the most extensive programme of tests on Tallgeese and Wing Zero and spent weeks analysing endless series of data, only to return time and again to tweak and mend, polish and change until everything was flawless.

"Well, gentlemen..." He let his gaze sweep over the bright-eyed dozen who had worked heedless of shift patterns or bugle calls that kept reverberating through the sound system of the base with unfailing precision. They were a close-knit, hand-picked group, doting on him, devoted to their job, enthusiasm paired with keen skill. He felt at home with them, war so far away, the suits nothing but a giant toy, with intrinsic mechanical and electronic innards, each piece devoid of a purpose…

Until they were put together into one murderous whole. He suppressed a shiver. "Done," he said, eyes sparkling, deep voice reverberating through the breathless silence of the hangar. "What are you waiting for? Go party."

They cheered and lost no time disappearing into the locker room at the far end of the hangar. The rushing of the showers, metal doors banged, the hollow echo of the men talking and laughing as they washed the tiredness and the dirt of yet another hard shift off. They would be drinking and watching some television, perhaps someone would put on some music to blare from the speakers in the mess hall. With no women on the base, it would all be a rather crude and smutty affair. The smile stayed on Zechs' face for a little longer as he lifted his hands to redo the tie that held his hair in a tight ponytail at the nape of his neck. It would not do to get caught with his hair in the cogs of some joint in the suit. He snorted a soft laugh.

He did not yet want to join his team. Or face Treize, for that matter. He would spend a little longer here, under the cold eyes of the suits, and carry on to apply the finishing touches by himself – he liked those moments of silent concentration, when inspiration would come to him easily and even the most complicated piece of kit would appear as if it was made of glass: transparent, logical, perfect...

Perfection. Silent, cold, deadly, in the shape of the suits. Zechs regretted that he could not take them out for a test flight, but if he had his way, the time would come… patience, he told himself, and watch what you wish for...

On the workbench that ran along one long side of the vast hall lay manuals, schemata, cut-away drawings, computer printouts, everything filed neatly and worn at the edges by frequent thumbing. It had taken him and his team months to put his and Heero Yuy's suit back together. He had determinedly ignored the stir he had caused by collecting the damaged machines and removing them to the Antarctica base, and he had still not figured out just why Treize shielded him from all the upheaval.

Treize had known where he had gone. Treize had become his accomplice the moment he allowed the two suits to be transported here, all files classified, lifted and then wiped, usage traces shredded. To all intents and purposes, the suits had dissolved into thin air. His Excellency had aided his former Second simply by doing nothing while allowing speculations to run riot outside the small circle of intiates: the suits had been blasted into oblivion by the explosion, they had plummeted to the bottom of the ocean, they were rotting away in some jungle…

It had been wise not to bother Treize with the truth. It was enough to know they both knew, instead of forcing him to make a decision. Since Zechs had buried himself, his team of engineers and mechanics, and the two suits in the icebound wilderness, neither he nor Treize had initiated communication. He relied on the news, rumours, even tidbits of information Noin managed to sneak through as sublime messages, manipulating radio traffic to keep him posted.

He was glad she was backing him. A comforting, reassuring feeling. He had realised with a shock that he was not so sure of Treize anymore.

Absentmindedly, he flicked through one of the printouts that had 'Classified' plastered across the top of each page, in fat bright red capitals. The pages of this file were particularly worn and fell open as soon as he began leafing through. He had read through the lines upon lines of technical data so many times, he could have recited them by heart. Yet he kept returning to this section, and found himself staring at a single line near the bottom of the page.

SYSTEM SILENCE

He leaned against the edge of the bench and groped for a packet of chewing gum in the breast pocket of his overall. Fighting pilot zero-one had not been easy, but he felt confident, high on adrenaline, fuelled by hot-cold zeal – finally, he would be able to test Zero against Zero. An even match. Yuy with all his experimental enhancements against entirely human excellence and the most rigorous military training that could be had. Plus Zero humming in both their heads.

He had been about to prove the superiority of his experience and skill, as he had begun to bear down on the younger man's gundam, with Zero coursing through his mind… and then, abruptly, he felt empty, black and cold, his mind blank, unable to react as gundam zero-one crashed into him. His own scrambling reaction, instinct honed by years of training, had saved him from being annihilated; instead, they both went down…

Zero had abandoned him. And Treize had not even attempted to deny that he had given the command to shut down.

They had argued after that, in Treize's office. Zechs, wrought up, with a pounding headache, well beside himself with pain, confusion and raging adrenaline, had charged at him, gone as far as accusing him of sabotage…

He turned the packet of chewing gum in his hand, needlessly smoothing the printout with his other hand. Treize had doused him with a few choice words, cold as space. Zechs had realised that the intercom and the security cameras were off, guaranteeing privacy. No one had witnessed what amounted to threats of violent insubordination – chargeable as assault on a superior commissioned officer, his General no less, and punishable by being shot after being dragged through a court martial.

Out of your mind, Treize had told him, get yourself gone, rest and report to the medical centre at sick call tomorrow. I expect your full report as soon as you're done with your checkup…

It had been sobering and utterly humiliating, and worse for he had sought for a hint of scorn or anger in Treize's tone, but had found none. Nothing. Just this chill that trickled down his spine like ice water, and he had all but fled the room to hole up in his quarters, swallow a handful of assorted painkillers and sleeping pills, and crash out on his bunk.

It had done nothing for him in the morning as he rose drowsily to wake up call at fourhundred hours. They really should not blare those bugles through the entire base, he had mused, staring blearyeyed at the ceiling, and then the reality of what happened the evening before crashed over him as a searing wave...

He tried to swallow down the wave of nausea that rose to his throat in a thick, cottony lump. No matter that he did not understand Treize's game any longer. No matter that Treize had not been prepared to explain anything, not even attempted to hold him back when he must have KNOWN... had Zechs not dropped enough hints?

Too late now, he told himself firmly, finger trailing over the black lines of print, before he unwrapped a chewing gum and put it into his mouth. From the mess, he heard music blaring and the laughing of the men, celebrating their success. He smiled vaguely. Otto's old team, still regarded by the rather snobbish Alliance ranks as a bunch of rebellious misfits, unsuited for a carreer and suffered merely for their skills as engineers and specialist mechanics who would talk to those damn suits as though the machines had souls. Nutcases, all of them, who would worship a nineteen-year old ace pilot who had decided to take on the Alliance, OZ and the world as it was.

Zechs shuddered. Better not to think about it. Treize was harder to deal with than any of them. Better not to think at all. The suits still needed tidying up, one last check, one more change of oil...

xxx

Treize found him at the hangar, in the repair dock with the suit. Zechs had his silver hair tied back in a tight knot at the nape of his neck and rather uncharacteristically, wore a black overall with rolled-up sleeves. From beneath the slighly open zip peeped the high neck of a field grey uniform vest, and he stomped about in steel-capped work boots. He was hefting a box with spare parts, muscles straining under oil-stained skin, and Treize leaned against the jamb of the side door to drink in the unusual sight of Zechs down and dirty. "I came to see what was keeping you," Treize said coolly.

"Then you might as well come in," Zechs snapped over his shoulder as he yanked the box on top of a work bench. "Sir."

"I do not appreciate insolency," Treize replied smoothly, stepping into the wide, dusky hall with the towering suits. They were alone, no one worked unreasonable hours like Zechs whose restlessness was bounded only by total exhaustion.

"No, sir, I apologise, sir." Zechs leaned over an oily part of machinery – a valve that regulated the pressure in one of the intrinsic joints of the suit's weapons system – and carefully wiped it clean with a cotton rag.

"Somehow," Zechs stepped close and glanced over his shoulder at those long-fingered, nimble hands that felt up the part almost tenderly for faults or cracks, "you do not sound apologetic at all."

Zechs' back tensed. "Sir."

"Are you hurt?"

"Not much. You saw enough last night, didn't you? Some chafing and a few bruises, that's all."

"After an air-tussle with the Foundation inspector? A couple of cracked ribs, whiplash and a sprained shoulder, dislocated knee cap and scalded side... lucky that someone came to help you out."

Lucy. Lucy had been there in time to distract his hunters... and Treize had done nothing to hold those men back. "I told you it's nothing," Zechs growled, deftly moving out to gain some space, and opened the box with the spares. He rummaged around and found what he had sought, an valve identical to the one he had so meticulously inspected.

Treize crossed his arms. Zechs shot him a glance and gaped – His Excellency in casual jeans and a black turtle neck was not an everyday occurrence either, even though the stuff was branded designer ware and as snug as a sheath on his long, muscular limbs. Treize regarded him unsmilingly. "I let that go because we are both off duty now, soldier," he said quietly, and Zechs felt himself splash crimson with annoyance. "Now tell me, what are you doing here if you should be in the sick bay under observation?"

Zechs tore his gaze away and scrutinised the new part with the same meticulous care he had dedicated to the old one. "Mending the suit."

"We have mechanics for that." Treize reached out, brushed aside a few rags on the workbench, and picked up the fat file of computer printouts that lay beneath. "And as far as I can judge this, the suits are perfect. You sent your team off duty hours ago."

Zechs set down the part and looked on as Treize lazily leafed through the papers, his smooth features impassive. "Why did you do it?" Zechs asked quietly.

Treize's fingers splayed on a particular page and caressed the two words that screamed at him from the monotonous stream of system data. SYSTEM SILENCE. Zero had obeyed his will. A shiver ran down his spine, lust and power and the hunger that had been nagging at his mind all day, and it blazed briefly from his eyes as he looked up at his friend.

Whose eyes met his with the same heat, unabashed and fiery. "You curbed me," he accused, his tone level, but Treize knew the signs, the stance, the look. "You stopped me when I had him cornered. You brought me down on purpose!"

"But you understand why," he countered smoothly. "Don't you, Milliardo?"

Zechs bit his lip at the intimacy. "I understand that you don't trust me."

Treize cocked his head, a slight, arrogant gesture that never failed to make Zechs feel as though the shorter man was looking down at him. "But I am here though I should not even know of your doing, and if I knew, I should courtmartial you for high treason."

With one sharp sweep, Zechs wiped a stack of papers off the bench. "Do what you must," he retorted, amid the rustle and swish of scattering sheets.

Treize sighed softly and replaced the file he held. "You want perfection," he said, his voice cool, silken, holding an odd allure, a challenge that was anything but gentle. "Yet you cannot achieve it on your own. You need something to measure it, in order to claim superiority. You need a balance."

"Of what?"

"Of strength," Treize shut the file and touched Zechs' bare forearm, trailing his manicured fingernails over stained skin, "and wits."

"So that I don't threaten you?"

_So you remain human. _

Avaguesmile played on thin lips. "Would you ever?"

Would he? Zechs stared, rooted to the spot by this intensely cold gaze that sought to pry inside his mind, rummaging through his most personal secrets for with Zero in his head, nothing remained hidden. Treize knew him more intimately than a bed partner could, and he had given himself willingly to be bared, stripped to the last fibre of his self, like another extension of his suit, valuable, currently unique, but ultimately dispensible. Yet, he had come to bet his own wager in this race against time to attain the ultimate goal, the perfect fusion of the pilot with his weapon, the perfect machine for revenge. Retaliation.

"There will be a time for it," Treize said quietly, tightening his grip slightly. Zechs stilled.

Of course Treize had to notice. He simply had to know. Not long now, and Lucy would tell Zechs where Heero Yuy was hiding, quite possibly right under their noses. Time for a rematch, to show the Perfect Soldier who was the better fighter...theultimatekilling machine. Not long,and he would be leaving. It was more than likely, no, it was absolutely certain that the Foundation had cast its web and were watching him.

But if they were watching him...

"Treize, you should not be here." And perhaps he had left already...

"Oh?" Playful, almost. Just on the right side of not quite – Treize really had this tuned like a gundam. "I came to tell you about an invitation."

Zechs wiped his face with the back of his hand, smudging a broad oily streak over cheek and nose. "You followed me here to tell me THAT? A social call?"

"Yes." He smiled faintly at Zechs' vaguely pained expression. "I decided to invite you back home. To go to Russia, my friend, to spend some glorious days in the thick of winter."

"Home?" Zechs scowled. "Winter? Being cold doesn't appeal to me right now."

"Sir," Treize reminded him, laying long, slender fingers on Zechs' bare forearm in a gesture that was unmistakeably authoritarian. "Does not appeal to me, SIR." He squeezed hard.

"Yes, sir," Zechs spat, trying not to wince.

"Oh, I should think you will change your mind, Miliusha," Treize replied softly, pressing even firmer before releasing his grip and feathering one single caress over the angry red marks his fingertips had left on the skin of the younger man.

Milliardo.  
Miliusha.

Zechs swallowed hard as the hushed sounds of the endearment sent a heat through his veins that had nothing to do with sex, or power, or any of his current life. It sent him right back to a time that was so hazy with light and happiness that he could not remember anything else.

"We will have a Yolka tree **6**," Treize said, never changing his tone, "about two storeys high, festooned with lights and glitter. The house will smell of candles and logfires, of pine, cinnamon and spun sugar. Snyegurochka and Dyadj Moros **7** will come to visit and shower the children with presents. We will get drunk on punch and vodka. And you will be stuffed with chocolate against your will and put on weight."

"Hey," Zechs protested quietly, but Treize merely shook his head.

"You will. Russian sweets and gingerbread soften the toughest of men. But of course, you could always try to stick to roasted almonds and sunflower seeds." Zechs looked at him and noticed the slight shadow, mingling oddly with the amused twinkle that settled in the bright blue eyes. Treize smiled. A real smile now, slightly wistful, allowing his closest friend a rare moment of insight. The intimacy of such moments was something he had come to treasure more than sex because they were rarer. Unspeakably tender. Precious.

And they never failed to melt the ice crust he had grown around his heart like a shield. Safe to hide behind against those bouts of Russian melancholy, Zechs thought with a dragging sensation in his chest, and this cursed homesickness. Treize had once told him Russians were always homesick, even when at home. We drink it in with our mother's milk, he had said, it is baked into the bread we eat; our soil, the lovely black soil of our Mother Russia, is saturated with it. It rolls in our blood, we cannot help it.

Even though Treize was the last one to fit this fatalist mould – or, Zechs wondered, did he just hide it better? Yet this sensation was something Zechs had never known, and sometimes, when Treize was like that, Zechs felt the lack too keenly. "Treize..."

"We could ride to midnight mass in a troika **8** and listen to the singing before walking back through the snow, under the stars, and when we get back, the fires will be lit and the bath drawn... I believe you would be more comfortable if I offered you your own bed in your old room, but there will be fresh sheets for two on mine. We will spend a few days being happy and getting fat."

And then? Zechs winced. How cruel of him to manipulate like this... "You like Earth too much."

"Yes."

No admonishment, no 'you don't like Her enough'. Simple acceptance. The sensation of loss that had begun mounting inside Zechs since he had decided to leave... he had been able to wrestle it down, contain it, even ignore it while he was keeping busy, but now it burned its way from its confinement at the bottom of his heart, and rushed through him with searing heat. To spend a few days in Russia, on the snowbound estate, with Treize close... only to make the loss greater still, to sharpen the pain, the bitterness, and gnaw at his resolution-

"I will not try to sway you," Treize said quietly, and Zechs became aware that he had been watched carefully all this time, and that his face would have shown his thoughts rather clearly because he had allowed his control to slip, something that never, just never, happened to Treize. "I only ask a few days of you."

And a few nights. Closeness. Intimacy beyond sex. The fusion of souls. And perhaps an arrest? Zechs swallowed and felt a faint blush heat his cheeks, ashamed of even thinking this. But they both were soldiers, and now they knew they were not fighting on the same side anymore. He would not begrudge Treize an attempt at action, instead he would fight it, and as always, the better one would win.

"Nu shto?" Treize leaned against Zechs, breathing the guttural sounds into the blond strands that tangled around his neck. "Chotshesh..." **9** From deep in his throat, with a huskiness that never failed to send shivers down the younger man's back.

"Da," Zechs murmured, before he could think, "da. Chotshu." The words losing their velvety allure, sounding harsher, sharper from his lips, his accent too dry for the language. "Ti znaesh?" **10 **

Treize sighed, the familiar schooled smile returning to his lips, his eyes still. "I have not been told officially yet. Therefore, I do not know." He had walked away, taken off in his private jet knowing full well of the meeting that had been scheduled between him and the chief of security of the Foundation the morning after his departure, and now he was evading capture, so to speak, by moving randomly through hostile and friendly territory. Dorothy's place, for example. Or the secret base here, in the middle of the frozen wasteland.

Zechs found it difficult to hold his gaze, but when he tried to turn away, Treize lightly traced his cheek and touched the ear of the blond with his lips. "O moyey lyubvi ya gotov slagatj legendy. I will write legends about my love." **11** The coolness of his almost inaudible voice belied by the soulful exuberance of the saying, so typical of his Russian mind. Rekindling memories to a bright fire, for those were the words he had said so many years ago, at the ball that followed the graduation of Zech's yearclass. An almost prophetic vision, and Zechs the child turning into a youth had laughed at him and said, but Treize, I am no girl... referring to the word for love. Treize had laughed with him.

Zechs lifted his arm and placed his larger hand over those slim fingers on his cheek. To hold on to the caress for a moment longer, a heartbeat, an eternity, to let bitterness and cold drain away, leaving him pleasantly empty, afloat with affection and warmth. He thought it safer not to speak for he was not sure whether he could right then. Treize could always do this to him: make him speechless, with hatred, bitterness, pleasure, sex, whatever was at hand, and it would always, always fit the mood to utter perfection.

Treize knew him too well.

Treize had encouraged him from the day they met again at the Academy. He had known everything about him even then. _Plans,_ Zechs thought, _Treize had always been full of plans. _Subtly guided his raging pain and furious energy into suitable, useful channels. With unerring surety, the older man had spotted the talent, the strength, the stamina contained within the boundaries of a singleminded purpose. He had worked to reinforce this purpose, with brutal clarity. Had allowed, or rather pushed, the younger man to make his choices while being fully aware of what was happening. No, Zechs could not blame Treize for concealing anything from him. Treize had gifted him with the kind of trust that was burden and shackles, and thus bound him most efficiently.

After he had made his decision. He, himself, against the advice Treize had given him. And once he had enlisted at the Academy, it had been a matter of all or nothing. Treize had pushed him towards all.

_Sometimes, mercy is a crime. _

Without letting go of Zechs' arm, Treize turned the new part, fingers touching as if by accident, lingering a little, caressing skin, metal, coming away with the matte sheen of new oil. "It should not have given way," Treize said, a cool frown on his smooth face. "Have you had the latest analysis of the alloy yet?"

"I did. They still haven't managed to get the specs right. It's out by a fraction, but that's enough to spoil it."

"Yes," Treize agreed, and somehow the small word seemed to answer a different statement, unspoken and heavy between them.

Treize had made him. And he had adored the older man for it.

This too had been welcomed. Another, at least mostly pleasurable means of manipulation, perhaps. Treize was as mindblowingly perfect in bed as elsewhere, dominant even when submitting once in a while, never letting go of his control. Zechs had not realised how this could be until Treize had obliterated any thought of going elsewhere for sex, or passion, or affection. The latter he could not afford, the rest he was overwhelmed with to exhaustion, with nothing to spare.

The hand on his arm slipped up to his shoulder and tangled playfully in the knot of his hair. "Let's put that thing back together and then have a look at the data streams, hm?" The knot came undone, strands of silver falling loosely over his shoulders.

He had been proud of his hair as a sign of difference when he entered the Academy, perhaps as a last subconscious attempt to rebel against his destiny that led into a road of bloodshed that led him forever away from Cinq. From his sister. From everything left to him on Earth. Yet in his blindness he had forgotten that he could easily have been expelled for refusing to have the long tresses chopped off. That, ultimately, he was at the Academy by his own will and choice. Only later had he become aware whose intervention had saved him from disciplinary action while letting him keep those silver lengths, and later still it had hit him like a train just what kind of signal they sent when he walked side by side with Treize. Who subtly suggested and advertised an intimacy that had yet to be confirmed, with the smallest of gestures, without as much as touching, simply by the way he moved and smiled and invaded the personal space of the younger man. _He always knew. And he has always been jealous._

Zechs snorted softly. "I get to spend the night at your office working through data analyses?" And he leaned into the touch of the hand that cupped the back of his neck and drew him closer to Treize's face even as his eyes slid half-shut and his lips parted a little.

It had been too late to undo, because by then – even though the signal did not quite tell the truth – it had come close enough to it, and after a furious battle with himself, Zechs decided to owe up to his pride and carry it with defiance. His position had swept with staggering speed from precarious underclassman to hotly envied prodigy. Being marked as the lover and protege of belligerent, brilliant and utterly dominant young Colonel Khushrenada kept those at bay whose wishes were not charitable towards this upstart new star of the Academy.

Treize caressed his hair. "I believe that tallies with your intentions," he said, and Zechs was not sure whether he detected a hint of tiredness in the smooth voice.

He was not always sure about his intentions. Not anymore. When he lay restless, sleepless at night, alone in his bed or on the couch in Treize's suite back at Head Quarters, completely spent or utterly frustrated, depending on what Treize had been up to, he sometimes allowed his thoughts to spiral into useless, acrid musings. Going over the things that had been, and could have happened differently had he not been so blinded by his thirst for revenge, and later not as singleminded as to have it no matter what. Had he stuck by Lucy when she told him just how much she felt for him, instead of giving in to his craving for Treize who claimed him as soon as Lucy became his rival for Zechs.

"We ought to get working," Treize said, pulling him close before suddenly letting go, the tiniest spark of regret in those intense blue eyes as they scrutinised the younger man. "I want you to explain to me your version of the evaluation."

It had been too late for his version when he woke up. Too late to reject the discreet signs that Treize had cleverly woven into their everyday encounters, carefully nurturing the curious interest, the hunger for affection and guidance in the younger man, into warmth and a growing need for something more. Friendship, at first. Trust later. Small touches then. All along with the vague but exhilarating breath of a natural, easy gift for power. It appeared only logical to be introduced to physical pleasure in the arms of someone so close to his heart, someone who owned the same kind of body and knew how it worked. Treize had moved in for the kill when Zechs was feeling alone, uneasy and longing for Lucy, and the older man was experienced enough to give him mindblowing pleasure the first time, under the pretense of calming his nerves and showing him 'how things worked in practice'.

"Miliusha?"

"Zechs," Zechs replied mechanically, "I'm Zechs now." But then, had he not wanted for exactly this to happen? Had he not sung his adoration for Treize into the older man's ears for years? Wanted him, in spite of Treize telling him to be cautious, to wait until he had seen more of life...

Yes, Zechs admitted to himself, it had been like this... and like that, too. Treize had made him wait, perhaps in the belief he would think things over, or maybe in the rather calculating hope that the wait would work in his favour, by increasing his longing... Treize had begun to change much around that time. Becoming harder, colder, more distant...

"Zechs," Treize repeated the name, "I should be used to it by now, do you not think? And yet, it never feels right. It does not suit you, this number for a name."

Zechs shook his head. _Maybe I should have done it sooner, and he'd not become like this..._

All or nothing, yet again – once Treize accepted his decision, it had been a road of no return. And Zechs was hooked, all feelings of guilt blown away in a storm of lust and any remnants of doubt melting away in the haze of complete satisfaction. Lucy offered equality, trueness, clarity, but that demanded the same in return. He could not give this any longer, for it left no room for revenge, and he had become too calculating to forget that she could not help him up the ladder of power to a position he needed to achieve his goal. Treize promised to help him achieve both. And so, Zechs submitted, utterly, to drown in the intoxication that was Treize.

As he did now, packing up his tools and closing the box with spares. He went to the row of lockers at the back of the hangar to change. The feeling of being observed by his general sent a familiar thrill through his body, setting the fine hairs on end and his nerves tingling while he dropped the overall, tore off the grey vest and slipped into skin-tight black jeans and a loose white cotton shirt, complete with a few oil stains. The cracked ribs hurt badly now, with the painkillers wearing off. He should have showered, but he hated to think of the sting of water on his chafed hide, and he could sense the well-known heat build in his stomach and knew Treize was the same, and it would be a matter of a few touches to fan it into a blazing fire.

Treize had no compunctions. He had his agenda already back then, something further reaching than any of them could dream of, blazing ambition well concealed under fine manners and steely determination. And Zechs, when he realised this too, had to admit that achieving the silence of arms was not a selfish goal.

Zechs buttoned up the shirt and cast a quick glance at his reflection in the small mirror on the inside of the locker door. What a mess he was in, wearing a dirty shirt, some smears of engine oil even on his cheeks, along with the welts and blackening bruises that adorned his face from when he had been knocked about the pilot seat. His hair needed a wash, too.

Sometimes, Treize would wash it for him, in their calmer moments, when passions burning beneath ice and steel had been allowed to subside into something more mellow. Something to which he longed to hold on and that kept forever slipping from him. In those moments, Treize allowed their old closeness to resurface. Accepted his friend's offers and wants, and gave instead of taking. Talked about his dreams of peace.

_Therein lies the danger,_ Zechs mused, an unhappy smile quirking his mouth when he found himself even thinking in the words of his alter ego. Warlike Treize, at the age of twenty four with a trail of blood behind him that defied description, trying to end all wars and attain everlasting, absolute peace – a conundrum worthy of its conceiver in its magnitude. And sometimes, when they lay together in those rare moments of silence and emptiness, he thought what would happen if Treize would make his goal come true. For he needed war to be who he was, and war needed him. Zechs could not imagine Treize working towards his own destruction, yet perhaps he had been wrong all along...

"Miliusha?"

Perhaps... when he thought of those precious, hateful moments when he believed he caught a glimpse of something more. A dream brought to an abrupt end when Treize had joined the military. True warmth. True affection. Something Treize ruthlessly suppressed as a distraction. Zechs stared at himself in the scrap of glass. He was powerful enough to distract His Excellency... it should have been flattering.

He turned and leaned against Treize, a brief moment, a heartbeat. Treize let him, but did not lift his arms to embrace, did not touch his lips, did not yield to the warmth flooding him. Scolding himself for being a fool, Zechs straightened and smoothed out his shirt, a wry smile on his face. "Sir."

"We should go now, Colonel. We have work to do. Oh, and you do have to clean up yourself." Of course. A sure-fire hint that this was about business, indeed: Treize's corps of officers were expected to be flawless in all respects. And Zechs would shower and wash his hair and turn up at Treize's suite of rooms impeccably groomed, in a crisp, freshly cleaned uniform with razor sharp creases and precise folds, and Treize too would be wearing uniform - his work clothes. Smelling faintly of the roses he so loved. They would sit together at his broad desk, buried beneath swathes of neatly stacked papers and a laptop, concentrated on the work, leaving no room for stray thoughts and painful desires. It was a reprieve and all the same more intimate than their encounters in bed. Permitted ground for being close.

"Yes, sir," the younger man replied, lifting his chin a little in a way that managed to be both defiant and respectful, "I apologise for my appearance."

"Accepted." A trace of warmth in the smooth voice, a glimpse of concern in blue eyes, all gone in an instant. And only then, a firm hand gripped his and squeezed it hard. Making him want more.

Treize always made him want.

xxx

"So what is going to happen?" Zechs asked, much later that night when they both were stiff from sitting bent over piles of paperwork and had decided to pause for some coffee.

Treize leaned back in his chair and blew some non-existent steam from the tepid brew in his cup. "We fly home."

Zechs, perching by his side on the corner of the desk, bit his lip and clenched his hands around his own cup. "Your home."

"Our home." Treize looked up, willing Zechs to do the same. Brilliant blue meeting steelblue steadily. "Miliusha moy-"

Zechs winced and concentrated on drinking some of the stale coffee they had kept in a flask on Treize's desk. "I am not that boy any longer."

"No."

"And you... you are not who I knew."

Treize remained silent this time, swirling the dredges of his drink in the cup.

"Why don't you help me understand? You said once, it's a matter of trust."

"Love is all about trust," Treize replied quietly, setting down the cup and looking up at Zechs, an oddly searching expression in those clear, sharp eyes. "Do you still think you love me?" He paused, before adding, almost reluctantly, "The way you used to?"

Zechs swallowed hard and broke away from this gaze. He stood his cup next to Treize's – holding it any longer would have betrayed the shaking of his hands, which he buried in the pockets of his uniform jacket. He got up to walk away, but hesitated, his head lowered, long swathes of silver falling over his face. Hiding him. Spinning him into loneliness, away from Treize...

Silence grew between them, as it had before – too many silences, too thick, too dark – mushroomed, bloomed into a cloud of darkness, cold and suffocating.

And as always when darkness threatened to sever what bound him and Treize together, the older man rose and drew him close. Zechs had to bend down a little to be able to hide his face against Treize's neck, as he had done since he could remember whenever he had been afraid of something... afraid of nothing with Treize holding him thus, wrapping him into the scent of steel and roses, sharp and mellow all the same, death and life, blood and love.

"Let me remind you," Treize murmured softly. "Let us go home to our memories, for a while at least."

For a while. For an eternity. For one last time, and forever thereafter.

"Am I your enemy now?" Zechs whispered roughly.

Treize's lips touched his ear in the shadow of a kiss. "You hold my heart. You are my soul. You will never be my enemy."

xxx

They flew back to Russia the next day.  
Ignoring, for a few more stolen days, what the future held for them.

At the headquarters of the Romefeller Foundation, Colonel Une was - in the absence of His Excellency, General Khushrenada - summoned into the meeting he had evaded, to discuss the issuing of a warrant for the capture of Colonel Marquise, andto establish the current position of the General with regards to the Foundation's plans for Earth, the Colonies, and the universe at large.

Her reply to the summons, that the General would be back soon, was met with two plain-clothes security men, to personally hand her a writ telling her the meeting was urgent, and the matter would suffer no delay.

It very much smacked of an arrest and interrogation. The young alliance officer who served as Une's adjutant had his hand on his handgun, but she coolly nodded at the two men in suits. "I will be coming with you in a moment, gentlemen."

"Now, if you please, Colonel," one of them replied blandly.

A small, tense pause, before Une straightened her uniform and pursed her lips. "As you wish."

The young officer was out of the door and gone before the men could react. Une hid an unpleasant little smile. "Gentlemen? You were in a hurry? Do not waste my time now."

xxx

And while Treize and Zechs were flying through icy skies, and Une stood stock-straight under cold neon lights to brave the panel of dark-suited Foundation men, the Organisation of the Zodiac **12** began to raise its stars...

The Alliance forces were beginning to split.  
Treize had planned well.

xxx

THE END of LA3

**Notes:  
1** Borstsh – red beet soup, can be served cold or hot, with soured cream  
**2** Pirogi – a kind of pastry or noodle-dough pockets with sweet or savoury fillings, Pelmeni are made of noodle-dough with sweet or savoury fillings  
**3** Blini – thin, soft pancakes; the batter is made with buttermilk or soured milk and very light  
**4** Twenty four snow-white roses – Treize is around twenty four at that time, his image flowers are roses, and white is Zechs' colour of innocence  
**5** A Russian feast is a night-long affair, with the main meal composed of many dishes, followed by this kind of drinking and picking on savoury tidbits  
**6** Yolka tree – Christmas tree, or rather New Year's tree  
**7** Snyegurochka and Dyadj Moros – Snowflake and Father Frost are the traditional gift-and-luck bringers at a Russian Christmas, which really is a New Year's celebration.  
**8** Troika – an open, fur-bolstered sledge (or, rarer, awheeled carriage), its body made of wickerwork or wood or a woodframecovered in stretched leather - depending how lightit is supposed to be - and often elaboratelypainted and decorated. It ispulled by three horses abreast; the two outer ones have their heads bent outwards and canter/gallop, the middle one is yoked in with a high-arched, slender yoke decorated with bells and runs at a sharp trot – Russian nobles competed as to who would have the finest horses and most splendid sledge and would race one another; midnight mass in Treize's social circles would be a gathering of wealth and glamour to greet the new year - if you are interested, have a look here:  
www .imh .org/imh/bw/orlov.html  
or  
www .horses .ru/horsemanship/ main UNDERSCORE troika  
or  
www .sunbirds .com/lacquer/box/770644  
**9** Nu shto? Chochesh... – Well, what (is it)? Do you want...  
**10** Da... – Yes, yes I want it. Do you know?  
**11** I will write legends... – a Russian declaration of love – pertaining to Zechs, it takes on a whole new meaning. The grammatical gender of the Russian word for love is feminine.  
**12** Organisation of the Zodiac - OZ - in my version of the GW universe, they are a secret military organisation, an exclusive clubwithin the closed world of the Alliance elite forces, and Treize is their General long before he becomes a General of the Alliance. They will hold true to him when he is ousted by the Foundation...


End file.
